


The Little Things You Give Away

by river_soul



Series: Mirror Verse Fic [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_soul/pseuds/river_soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: She's in the Mirror Universe where Mirror!Spock is the Emperor of Vulcan/Federation.</p><p>It should disgust her, rally that streak of stubborn dignity that kept her afloat all those years at Starfleet but all she can feel is grateful, a passing relief at her place in this world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Things You Give Away

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dark and contains dubious themes. WHY IS MY BRAIN SO AWFUL?

She sits on the edge of the bed, splays her hands on her thighs and waits. He is close, she can feel his presence always; an unwanted, lingering warmth in the back of her mind. It’s stronger, almost overwhelming, when he is close. Uhura holds her breath, waiting until he is near enough to determine his mood. She prays he is tired; worn from his day in dealing with the troublesome Klingons. It is easier when he wants nothing but the curl of her body against his, easier for Uhura to pretend.

Her back has begun to ache as the minutes tick past, a dull throbbing sensation creeping up her spine from sitting without moving. Her face shows no sign of this discomfort when he enters, his steps slow but precise. He does not spare her a glance at first, moving through the room in a familiar routine. Uhura’s eyes follow him until he faces her, expression just as blank as she expects. She holds his gaze, feels the intensity behind their blackness, the swirl of feelings inside him.

His hand is hot against the soft flesh of her elbow as the gentle pressure he applies tells her to stand. He touches her face, fingers uncharacteristically tender and for a moment she closes her eyes, remembers the Spock from her world. She trembles, with fatigue and want when he moves closer, presses himself against her.

“Do you remember,” he asks, voice soft and careful against the shell of her ear, “when you first arrived?”

“Please,” she begs, throat tight. Not this, she pleads, not tonight. She does not understand why he wants her to relive this, why he returns her to this moment in time. “I have been good,” she tells him, a whisper lost against the heat of him.

“Perhaps,” he tells her and she strains against him, tries to pull away when she feels his hands rest carefully against her brow and the curve of her cheek.

-

It’s a mistake, a mishap with the beaming technology that lands her in this world. At first there’s fear, bright and quick, but then curiosity. A strange desire to see this world, to see herself. At first no one spares her glance, movements hurried and quick. It only takes her a moment to realize she is not on the Enterprise anymore and she thinks, given the slick heat and architecture Spock had shown her, that she must be on Vulcan. For a moment her throat tightens. She had not considered this possibility. More surprising through is the myriad of the federation races she sees, all dressed in the Vulcan style. She does not get far before she is noticed, the red of her uniform a beacon in the sea of neutral colors.

“Halt,” someone says behind her.

She complies slowly, turns with a nonthreatening smile on her face. The speaker, she is stunned to find, is not Vulcan but human like her. She can read the confusion in his eyes but he does not hesitate to take her arm in a vice like grip. He leads her through the labyrinth of rooms and halls, past more curious faces, until they end up in an antechamber. There they wait, for what Uhura doesn’t know but after a moment she hear the rise and fall of voices. She strains a little to hear better, catching phrases in one of the less common dialects of Vulcan.

One of the voices is familiar.

Through the parted doors before her, Uhura is surprised at who she sees on the elevated dais. “Spock,” she says before she can stop herself, automatically stepping towards him, through the doors.

There is no recognition in his eyes when he sees her, just dark intensity she doesn’t understand. When he rises, those in the room, including the guard that brought her, bow their head, and look away. Uhura does not, she stands tall and proud. Confused.

He has one hand to her throat, the other careful against her forehead before she can even blink. His skin is blistering against hers, the pressure on her neck forces to her knees before him. “Who are you?”

“Spock,” she says, helplessly before he places two fingers under eyes, thumb on her chin. She bucks against him when she feels the intrusion of his mind in hers. Moments of her life flash past as he sorts through her memories and emotions. Uhura sees her childhood, sees Starfleet and the Enterprise, and watches the destruction of Vulcan and Nero’s ship. Then she sees Spock, the anguish of loss on his face, remembers the feel of his body above her, the heat of him inside her. Everything is moving quickly, emotions tangled in these memories tumbling out of her.

She cries out, sobs against the iron hand at the back of her neck. It takes her a moment, lost in her own fear and confusion, to feel the other trendle, dark and cold against the hot rush of her own emotion, which leads back to him. At first what she sees confuses her, pieces of a childhood she remembers sparsely described by Spock but there are other things, different things she doesn’t understand. There is no federation, no Kirk or McCoy, no Enterprise. Just Spock, dark and violent. Vengeful.

He pulls away then, abruptly enough to send her sprawling on the floor.

 

“Fascinating,” he breathes, dark eyes glittering wetly.

-

He’s there when she wakes hours later, a familiar heat beside her on the bed. For a second she doesn’t remember where she is, but when she turns to face him it all comes rushing back. She looks away from the cruel uncertainty in his eyes and stares at the dark hair of his beard standing starkly against the pale contours of his skin instead. She struggles to sit up, body heavy and mind muddled. She flinches when he touches her; impossibly strong arms lifting her up into a half prone position beside him.

“Mind melding can be overwhelming when the subject is ill prepared,” he tells her. “But then you knew of that possibility. ”

Uhura looks away,and thinks about her Spock, the grief and confusion rolling inside, his body above hers. “He did not intend to hurt me.,” she says finally, unsure why she feels compelled to speak.

“Nor did I. It was the fastest method of obtaining the information I required.”

He touches the curve of her lip then, fingers warm against her skin. Uhura can feel the prickle of his confusion and desire, the hot press of unrestrained interest. Everything about him overwhelms her. “What has happened?” she asks.

“An alternate universe,” he says, “an ion storm, a fluke of physics.” And then, after a moment of silence, “Dishonesty would accomplish nothing.” Uhura knows this, understands that despite whatever is coming and oh, something is, that much she can feel rolling under the muscles of his fingers, Spock, in any form, would never lie to her.

-

Uhura learns through trial and error what her place is and what is expected of her. She understands how to be useful, with her mastery of languages and quick mind. At first she is unsure, voice trembling when she speaks out of turn for the first time. The betrayal of emotion is quick across his face; she almost doesn’t catch the slight part of his mouth and wrinkle of skin on his forehead when she corrects the court translator, her Klingon flawless. When she looks to him she feels a strange surge of pride and mild surprise from him and for a moment she softens, forgets where she is. The smile on her face is radiant; a familiar feeling of pride cresting inside her chest at the look he gifts her with.

She realizes her mistake too late. He can feel the flood of emotion thrumming inside her just as plainly as if it were his own and Uhura watches something quicken behind those empty black eyes.

-

It has been six months and Uhura no longer knows how to fight against the steady calm of a man whose face she once loved. This Spock accepts each rebellion with silent disapproval and strong, steady hands. He is never excessive, never strikes out at her in anger. Each touch and each caress is deliberate and planned. He knows now all she would not give up to him, uses each precious memory, each pearl gleamed from her with care. The feel of his fingers against her brow and cheek are as familiar to her now as his slow, steady breathes at night beside her.

She knows what he is searching for each night when he presses their minds close together, breathes her in.

Hope.

-

“I do not wish to go,” Uhura tells him quietly in Vulcan, so not to be overheard by the other.

“It has already been decided.” His tone is even but final.

“No,” she says.

“Nyota.”

“No,” she repeats louder, several heads tuning in their direction. It’s futile, a childish rebellion at best, but she can not sit still; she can not let this happen without doing something, anything. She steps away from him, from his outstretched hand that beckons her back. Uhura is tired of the executions and seeing the agony of death in those he believes to be a threat. “I will not watch it anymore,” she tells him, turning her back towards him.

Behind her, Uhura can feel the rise of his anger like a fire at her back, hot and intense. She expects his hands on her neck, the crushing grip she’s seen before but she cries out in surprise when his fingers tangle in the sleek ribbons of her hair. He hauls her towards him with a cruel jerk, forces her to her knees.

The murmur of the crowd crests and falls, excited whispers and anxious eyes. When she looks up his face is expressionless but she feels his disappointment, more than the brief flare of anger, wash against her.

“That was…unwise,” he says.

-

The night he touches her for the first time since her arrival marks her arrival’s one year anniversary. His grip is not hard but he does not yield to her protest as he moves her across the room and onto the bed. “It will be less painful for you if cease your struggles. You will be unable to free yourself from me, you know this,” he reminds, not unkindly as he straddles her waist. He is patient, waiting as the minutes tick past until she finally falls still, wears herself out against him.

“There,” he says, releasing her aching wrists. His expression is unreadable as he observes her. He touches the long column of her neck first, hands burning a hot trail down between her breasts. He stops over her heart, watching her expression as he peels apart the thin layers of her robes. She does not fight against him when he moves to helps her stand, pushing the robes off her shoulders. His fingers are gentle against the skin of her hip as he eases her underwear down. She puts her hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she steps out of them and hears the slight intake of breath before she pulls away.

She has not touched him before this.

-

He does not mark her like the others do.

There are bruises, dark fingerprints on her arms and thigh; but he does not cut her, does not disfigure her. Uhura has seen others, humans and Vulcan’s alike in servitude whose faces and bodies are a testament to someone else’s lack of control. It should disgust her, rally that streak of stubborn dignity that kept her afloat all those years at Starfleet but all she can feel is grateful, a passing relief at her place in this world.

-

Uhura looks away, shame burning hotly inside her. She should be resisting, should be fighting him off but she finds she just can’t muster the strength. Instead she stands before him, open and choice-less as he lays himself over her on the bed. She closes her eyes against the feel of him, thighs parting in welcome even as she turns her face into the crisp white sheets. This is not the man she loves but her body betrays her, opens itself to the familiar contours of his.

He brushes his lips against hers before he pulls away. Uhura listens to the rustle of clothing, the sound of his steady breathing. The skin of his chest is hot against hers, the brush of hair tickles. Closing her eyes Uhura imagines her Spock, the softness pooling behind his eyes and the sweetness of their first kiss. It is easy at first and it keeps the tears she feels inside from drowning her but then he kisses her again, deeper and more insistent and she feels the coarse brush of his beard against her chin and it shatters.

“Look at me,” he says.

The hand curled around her shoulder tightens, holds her still against the bed as the other falls between them. When he touches her she looks away, ashamed and cries her way through the waves of pleasure he brings her, aided by her own traitorous memories. He waits until her body stops trembling, skin cool again before he moves inside her. He gives no warning, just the catch of some half spoken word in his mouth and a bruising grip on her shoulder. He moves with a practiced rhythm that is not his own, hips rolling against hers. This time Uhura can not keep the sounds from bubbling up and fists the fabric of the bed in her hand, a high desperate sound breaking the silence.

She cries his name out against him, feels her body rise up and converge into some singularity as he watches her come apart under his hands.


End file.
